


Madness

by terrormusical



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrormusical/pseuds/terrormusical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alice in Wonderland AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is my absolute favorite book, and when I was reading it the other day I thought, hey! This would be a great AU. It bears absolutely no resemblance to the actual story line of the book or the movie, but I did steal some characters and quotes and such, which I promise you I don't own.
> 
> A few things about the story itself--it's really damn wordy, for one thing, and it moves quickly in some ways. I tried to copy Lewis Carroll's writing style as best as I could. You may be the judge of whether or not i succeeded.
> 
> Also, it's VERY AU, and you're probably going to forget you're reading fanfiction at some point...
> 
> Oh, and a side note...Brendon is the Hatter, which I'm sure you would have figured out on your own. It just seemed appropriate.
> 
> Enjoy (:

“Mother,” he insisted, folding his long fingers into fists against the cold leather of the carriage seat. “You know what he's going to say as well as I do, and I think it will save us both a lot of energy if we just turn around, and—”

 

“Ryan,” she interrupted him, and of _course_ he knew it wouldn't work, but everything is worth a try. He looked up, through the small, narrow window behind her head. It was warped by the poor craftsmanship of the glass, but very much there all the same: their house, gray and stately, upon the hill in the distance. His eyes dropped discreetly to the latch of the door. He could unhook it and hit the ground running, all the way back to the front door. Instead he set his lips into a firm line and relaxed his hands. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Your father has some friends he wants you to meet. You know, associates, partners, all that,” she rambled desperately, anything to spark his interest. He scoffed, looking away, fixing his gaze to the dull burgundy carpet lain on the carriage floor. The gold pattern woven into it shook and blurred with every bump they sailed over. “I'm sure...I'm sure you'll like them. And the ideas they have,” she added, not sounding sure at all.

 

“I bet I will, Mother,” he said absentmindedly, only half aware of what he was saying to sate her. They sat in thick, suffocating silence for the rest of the ride, both doing the best they could to avoid the other's eyes.

 

 

 

 

The mansion appeared on the horizon very suddenly as they turned the corner and emerged from the forest. It was large and white, a cast iron fence blocking off the entire clearing. The carriage house was just on the other side of the gate where the dirt path became carefully laid brick, as dull and brown as anything. Further up the drive was the guesthouse, just at the foot of the hill, and past it was the estate. It looked like a small English town of its own.

 

Ryan stepped cautiously out of the carriage, making sure his new trousers didn't catch on the door latch or the hanging step, and took his first steps in two hours toward the row of people waiting for them at the carriage house. The only one he recognized was his father, smiling proudly, shoulders squared. Ryan's palms immediately felt cold and damp, and he yearned to be anywhere else.

 

He could hear the faint clicking of his mother's footsteps as he approached the small group, hand already extended to shake his father's hand. The older man smiled, accepting it warmly, completing missing the pleading look in his son's eyes. “It's wonderful to see you my boy,” he said, and without pausing or taking a breath, added, “Allow me to introduce you to...”

 

Ryan's ears seemed to switch off then as he shook the hands of men whose names he'd never remember. They all looked the same: stiff backs, starched suits and gray hair, glasses perched on their big noses, leather shoes polished perfectly.

 

“You've got a good boy here, George,” the tall man in front said, prompting the others to smile and nod primly. “He has a firm handshake, always a good sign.”

 

His father grinned, his warm gaze landing on his son who wasn't sure whether or not to thank the man. What was his name, anyway? He was certain it was either Johnson or Baker, but he was certain enough, so he stayed silent.

 

A few long, cold moments passed before the same man chimed in with, “Shall we talk over tea?”

 

 

 

 

“More, Mister Ross?” asked the man who sat across from Ryan. His glasses were dangerously close to slipping right off the end of his nose, and Ryan was just able to catch himself from saying so. Instead, he said, “Yes, please.”

 

His small teacup was full in a fraction of a second, and the man was able to tip the teapot back without even a drop escaping. Ryan absently added sugar cubes to his tea, all the while thinking,    
_this is why I'm not cut out to be a businessman—I can't pour tea properly to save my life._   


 

“How does that sound, my boy?” His father asked suddenly, and Ryan looked up to find six pairs of eyes fixed intently on him. He realized then that his father had been explaining something, and was now smiling brightly, awaiting his son's input. Ryan's fork clinked loudly as it hit the rim of his teacup.

 

“I think,” he began boldly over the chime, swallowing the lump in his throat, “it sounds marvelous.”

 

It turned out to be both the right and wrong thing to say, because all at once everyone was standing and shaking his hand once more, clapping their hands excitedly and patting him on the back. He smiled dazedly because it was the right thing to do, not because he felt happy in the slightest.

 

“It's settled, then,” his father said grandly. “You'll be on the next ship to India.”

 

Ryan's heart dropped quickly, settling somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Don't worry, boy,” his father amended cheerily, noticing his son's wide eyes and blanched face. “You won't be alone, old man Harrison here will go with you,” he said, patting the back of the tall man (presumably the aforementioned old man Harrison). “He knows all the tricks of the trade,” he mused. “And with your enthusiasm and his wit, you'll be coming back with enough tea to keep all of England happy for a year!”

 

At this everyone laughed gleefully, maybe even giddily. More hands were shaken, more backs were patted, and all the noise around Ryan crescendoed to an annoying buzz in his ears. “Stop, please,” he said at once.

 

Silence fell over the room like a heavy blanket.

 

“Father,” he began shakily, eyes darting around the hall until he noticed the wooden door, left ajar. He motioned to it, asking, “A word?”

 

“Of course, my boy,” he replied hastily, eyebrows furrowed, and Ryan could hear the murmuring begin behind them as soon as they slipped through the door. “What is it, son?” His father asked, arms crossed.

 

“Don't be angry with me,” Ryan began calmly, holding up his palms, the universal plea of innocence. He felt like he was ten years old again. “But I wasn't listening and I had no idea I was agreeing to.”

 

His father sighed, his shoulder slumping forward, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen, son, when you go to India, you've _got_ to be more attentive. Miss one little detail, and you might end up—”

 

“Father, I...” Ryan tried, discouraged when his father pressed on.

 

“—chained up in some dungeon, and all of Britain will be enslaved, and—”

 

“Father, are you daft?” He interrupted boldly. For a few moments, all he heard was his own heavy breathing. “I don't want to go. And I won't.”

 

“Yes, you will,” Mister Ross insisted, stepping closer to his son, looming over him with a dreadfully hard look in his eyes. “You're nearly twenty years old, unemployed, no wife, nothing. You need this.”

 

“No, you _want_ this,” Ryan argued, frowning deeply. “Send a few of your friends,” he suggested, then something hot and burning bubbled up inside him. “Never mind that,” he snarled. “Go yourself.”

 

He watched his father turn on a heel, scrubbing his hands over his face as he made his way back to the door. “Take a walk, George,” he said wearily.

 

“Don't call me that,” Ryan hissed from between his teeth, left alone in the dim corridor as the door latched closed with a resounding _click._

 

 

 

 

The air outside was refreshing and thin, but not so much that Ryan found himself gasping for it. It was plentiful, just not heavy, blowing freely around him with the waltzing wind. He shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed, throwing the sprawling manse one last airy look over his shoulder before turning his attention to what lay ahead of him.

 

There was an oak tree just ahead, larger and grander than any oak he had ever seen. He supposed it was a prerequisite for everything on this particular plot of land to be large and grand, so it came as no surprise that, leaves and all, it was nearly as tall as the house.

 

Its trunk was gnarled and ancient, twisted oddly in all directions as if pushed and pulled by years of violent storms. It looked out of place on the still, colorless countryside. He made several laps around it, finding a knew marking each time around until he was sure he had accounted for them all. Then, on the fourth turn, he saw something he was sure wasn't there before.

 

There was a large hole at the base of the tree, crudely dug as if by an animal. “A rabbit hole,” he said aloud, but he wasn't completely convinced—the rabbit would have to be just about the size of him to dig such a gaping crevice. He knelt next to it, blinding reaching an arm in to feel around. Finding walls but no floor, he carefully swung his legs over, kicking them for a moment before ever so slowly sliding in to try and find the bottom.

 

He was sure he had a firm enough grip on the root that protruded from the ground next to him, but in a heart-stopping moment, he slipping from his perch on the edge of hole and began falling before he could even think to catch himself.

 

For a few terrifying seconds his heart beat wetly in his throat and butterflies erupted wildly in his stomach, but the crushing darkness enveloped him, and the world around him faded to black.

 

 

 

 

When Ryan woke, he felt no pain, though he had clear recollection of the fall up until the point where he lost consciousness. Though when he looked up, he saw no pinpoint of light far above him—the opening was nowhere to be seen. All he saw was a canopy of trees.

 

He sat up all too quickly, wondering why the air felt so sweet and fresh if he was so far underground, and wondering how how on earth there were trees growing if there was no sunlight. He did find as he stood, however, that he was indeed in a forest, and quite a lovely one at that. Hanging moss was strung through the branches, sewing the tree tunnel shut where they met above him. It seemed to be twilight, and the breeze that drifted by softly was warm.

 

“Of course it's warm,” he said to no one but himself. “I have to be somewhere close to the center of the Earth...” He shook the thought from his head, laughing as he watched the lightning bugs float around him. “No, I must have drifted off and sleepwalked all the way into the forest,” he assured himself. “Now if I can just find the moon, I may be able to navigate back.”

 

He looked every which way, turning wildly only to find the moon was nowhere in sight.

 

“Losssssssst?” A dreamy, echoing voice asked from somewhere above him. When Ryan looked up, his eyes were met with nothing but leaves, moss and darkness.

 

“Um, yes, I quite am,” he stammered. “If you don't mind my asking,” he said, then swallowed quickly, “where are you?”

 

“Behind you,” came the reply, startling loud and rather close to his ear, and he promised himself that it most certainly was _not_ fur he just felt on his neck, no, of course not. Unfortunately, however, upon turning around he found a large cat grinning back at him.

 

He stifled his shriek, biting down aggressively on his thumb. It wasn't just _any_ cat, he quickly noticed. It was, for starters, half his size, with pink and purple fur and glassy blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. If that wasn't enough already, he was levitating so that his gaze could meet Ryan's, who, meanwhile, was beginning to feel lightheaded. “Pleased you make your...” The cat laughed low in his throat. “...acquaintance.”

 

“Who...” Ryan managed, the rest of the sentence choked off. “That man put something in my tea,” he whispered to himself.

 

“I'm the Cheshire Cat,” the animal drawled, turning in midair so that he was looking at Ryan upside-down. “You're new here.”

 

“Ryan, actually,” he muttered before he realized what the Cheshire Cat meant. “Is there any way you could tell me where on Earth I am?”

 

“On Earth?” the cat asked. “What a dreadful idea.”

 

“At least tell me how I can get back,” Ryan pleaded, by now becoming increasingly scared that there was, in fact, no way back, and he was going to be trapped in the company of this strange creature for the rest of his days.

 

“Back to where?” The Cheshire Cat widened his eyes. “I'm fairly certain that there is only one way to go, or at least only one way you might vaguely _want_ to go, which would be that way.” He pointed to the right with his tail, reclining mid-air as one might in a chaise. “Possibly.”

 

“You're not much of a help,” Ryan sighed. “Did you dig the hole?” He asked suddenly, voice dripping with hope. If the cat dug the hole at the base of the tree, he had to know how to get out of it.

 

“Oh,” the Cheshire Cat said, his voice grave and low. “You've just made something very clear to me, and I believe there is only one way that you'll ever be able to do whatever it is you want to do.”

 

“I want to go home,” Ryan said, quite confused at how the cat could have a solution if he didn't even know Ryan's goal.

 

“Right, well, at any rate, the Hatter can probably help you. And mark my words, if he can't, he knows someone who can.”

 

“Why didn't you just tell me that first?” Ryan demanded, holding out his palms, frowning. The breeze had stopped, and the air was becoming colder as it typically does when the sun sets.

 

The Cheshire Cat tumbled in the air, a thoughtful look in his eyes, as if he was daydreaming. He suddenly turned to Ryan and smiled, saying, “I believe you said you were lost?”

 

Ryan rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, turning quickly and stomping off to to right as fast as he could, finding that the farther he went, the tireder he became, and the fuzzier his vision grew around the edges. Soon he was all but sleeping on his feet as they pounded rhythmically against the ground. He had been walking down the same tunnel of trees for what seems like hours but was probably something close to twenty minutes, when suddenly, the trees stopped and he could see the chimney of a house through a thick veil of fog. It felt like a cold shock as he stepped through it, but once he did, all fatigue seemed to disappear and he felt perfectly awake.

 

He found himself standing in a clearing framed by trees. The grass was downy and a vivid green, mottled with tiny purple flowers. There was, indeed, a house across the small field. Muted yellow light gleamed warmly in the windows. Perhaps the most notable thing, however, was the long table in the very center of everything, china and cakes and cups and platters of all sort covering it almost completely. It was prepared for a party of twenty when only one person was seated at the head of the table, his back to Ryan.

 

“Excuse me,” he said reluctantly, and just as he predicted, the other man was on his feel in seconds, clutching his heart and panting wildly.

 

“My, you've certainly scared me,” the Hatter said, pulling on the hem of his waistcoat though it wasn't wrinkled, and and adjusting his collar though it was already straight. “And you are?” He asked.

 

“Ryan. Ryan Ross. Of London,” Ryan said, standing still as a statue as the raven-haired man began making circles around him.

 

“I'm going to take a guess, Ryan Ryan Ross Of London, if you don't mind, which I'm sure you don't, because you seem rather confused as it is,” he rattled off, coming to a stop in front of Ryan, staring at him with wide silver saucer eyes. His skin was perfectly white, paler than any Ryan had ever seen, and it looked as soft as silk. “You got here because you were running from someone. Yes, yes, of course, that's it, isn't it? You were running away. You _are_ rather out of breath, but that's probably because I'm frightening you, which I _do_ have a horrible tendency to do to visitors and I apologize.”

 

“No, it's—” Ryan began, only to be interrupted.

 

“As I was saying, or at least as I think I was saying, because these days I find I'm becoming increasingly forgetful. I can't help it, really, I try but nothing seems to work, not even writing things down. I always misplace the papers.” Here he stopped and gazed past Ryan distractedly, tapping his lips with his fingertips. “Anyway, you needed something?”

 

Ryan stared, dumbfounded. “I never told you I needed something.”

 

“But you do, don't you?” The Hatter asked, smiling. “I know I may not look the part, but I can be clever sometimes, or maybe I like to think I am as I rarely have someone to compare myself to. Often, though, intelligence and madness can become confused with one another, correct?” He asked, leaving Ryan no room to answer. “Correct. Tell me, Ryan, why is a raven like a writing desk?”

 

Ryan's mind was already reeling from his futile attempt to keep up with the Hatter's brainless chatter, and the last thing he wanted to do was try and figure out a riddle. “I—”

 

“Never mind that, tea?” The Hatter offered kindly, already holding out a poured cup when Ryan looked up. He accepted it, though was reluctant to take a sip. The china looked as if it might fall apart if he touched it. There were minuscule cracks running all along the outside, criss-crossing over each other, and against his better judgment, he pinched the tiny handle between his index finger and thumb. It crumbled to a wet pile of dusty porcelain bits not seconds after he lifted it from the saucer.

 

The Hatter frowned. “Hm,” he began thoughtfully. “How unfortunate. You see, the Red Queen took my china after my trial instead of imprisoning me, which, truly, I _should_ be thankful for, and I assure you, I mostly am,” he said, nodding diligently. “But that left me only with my _good_ china, which really isn't meant for heavy use, you know,” he added. “Or any use at all.”

 

Ryan watched silently as he picked up another pre-poured cup, adding two sugar cubes. It disintegrated at the first clink of the silver spoon as he began to stir. “This tea party isn't really going as I had planned,” the Hatter said, adjusting his top hat which seemed to change colors as it caught the warm light of the sunset. “Perhaps we'll try again, whenever tea-time rolls around.”

 

Ryan stared blankly at him, his head somehow both numb and achy, and he wasn't sure how to feel with the pale-faced wide-eyed Hatter smiling so intently at him. He watched as his long, slender fingers dipped into his coat, reemerging with a varnished. old pocket watch. It was attached by a chain to his waistcoat. “Tea time, my, how fast time flies!” the Hatter chimed, reaching for the teapot on the table. A few pieces chipped off the handle as he picked it up. “Or, rather, the time outruns itself, therefore not actually existing at all. At least, not here,” he said, motioning to the clearing. “Please, have a seat.” He smiled cheerfully.

 

“Hardly any time has passed,” Ryan said dumbly.

 

“None at all, actually, in quite a long time. Blame the Red Queen and her army,” the Hatter said, tipping the teapot. The spout fell off as the weight shifted inside, the contents pouring heavily from the newly opened hole in the side. Most of it missed the teacup below, soaking into the table cloth. “I used to be the court jester, you know. I sang a lovely song for the Queen one day, but she apparently didn't find it nearly as lovely as I did, because the next thing I knew I was convicted for the murder of Time!” He exclaimed.

 

“Oh my,” Ryan volunteered.

 

“And for the sake of saving Time and all his friends, she made sure that time no longer existed here, my place of exile,” he sighed. “Really, though, I don't mind, because it is always six o'clock and always time for tea, and the sun is always paused there in the sky so that it stays a marvelous shade of orange. Wonderful, isn't it?”

 

“Wonderful,” Ryan said distractedly.

 

“I do really quite miss my china, though. It was so reliable. I must have thrown thousands of tea parties.”

 

“I—I really feel bad for you, I do, and this Queen seems like a terrible woman,” Ryan said, the most he had said since he arrived there.

 

“Atrocious,” the Hatter assured him, nodding enthusiastically.

 

“But I would really just be thrilled to get out of this—of wherever I am at the moment. The Cheshire Cat told me you'd have something to help me get home.”

 

The Hatter looked unsure for a moment, pressing his clasped hands to his lips and narrowing his eyes. “I _do_ have something that you may find helpful, a certain potion given to me by a visitor a long time ago who said they wouldn't be needing it, because they planned to stay forever.”

 

“Well?” Ryan prompted eagerly.

 

“I believe drinking it will take you wherever it is you want to go, but, naturally, it only works once, and wherever it is that you _left_ becomes closed off forever, at least to the drinker, and—”

 

“I'll take it,” Ryan said, smiling decisively. “Where is it? Do you have it now?” He asked, question after question, eyes hurriedly scanning the table.

 

“I do,” The Hatter drawled slowly, and Ryan wasn't at all comforted by the lack of urgency or any care at all in his voice. He sounded suddenly mysterious, as if he knew something Ryan didn't, which was one of his greatest annoyances. “But before I give it to you,” he said, “may I be so bold as to ask a favor of you?”

 

“What might that be?” Ryan asked warily, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and leaning back on his heels.

 

“Get my china back from the Red Queen,” the Hatter said, smiling, “and I will give you the potion in return.”

 

Ryan was at a loss for words, his eyes frantically darting around. There were just about thirty of different colored liquids scatter all over the table, all of which could potentially be the very potion he was looking for, and he was sure he would find it eventually by trial and error. “I'll just keep trying these, I'm sure I'll find it eventually,” Ryan challenged.

 

The Hatter laughed, almost deviously. “That would be a grave mistake, I promise you.” He snatched the brightest purple potion from the very end of the table, popping the cork in one smooth motion, and poured it on the grass near his feet. It immediately turned black before it became dust. “Now, unless you want that to happen to your insides, which I shall dare to assume you _don't,_ may I suggest you get my china so that I can give you the correct potion?”

 

Ryan eyed him suspiciously, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He could always pour bits of the potion on the grass to test them, but even so, they may be carefully measured out, and the effects might not be immediate. He sighed.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Splendid,” the Hatter said, voice dark and giddy as ever, and he whirled around, coattails following him, to motion to the horizon with the spoon in his hand. The tower of a castle rose high above the fog and the forest. It was bright blood red, and Ryan was sure it wasn't there before. “It's really quite easy to get there, just follow the path.”

 

“Which one?” Ryan asked, wiping his hands on his trousers.

 

“Why, the only one!” The Hatter chuckled, and when Ryan looked up once more, there was a path opposite them, leading away from the clearing and pointing straight toward the castle.

 

“This is all completely mad,” he murmured to himself.

 

“But the maddest things are the most wonderful, are they not?” He asked, once again answering his own question before Ryan could. “They are indeed. Now if you'll excuse me,” he said, “It's tea time.”

 

Ryan reluctantly began nearing the edge of the field, drawing closer to where the trees ended and the foggy road began. He was almost there when he abruptly turned around and said, “Excuse me, but I don't believe I've gotten your name yet. I'm going to need to tell them who sent me, after all.”

 

The Hatter grinned, looking perfectly insane, and said, “Oh, _Hatter_ will do just fine. It always has.” He kept his eyes on Ryan as he tipped the teapot, pouring it straight onto the table below. Seconds later, the entire pot broke away from the handle which he tossed over his shoulder, and said, “It would do you good to hurry.”

 

“But surely,” Ryan pressed on, “you must have a name. I'm Ryan. And you are...” He held his hand out, as if he was asking for a handshake, but instead the Hatter stared at it thoughtfully.

 

“I feel that I used to have a name, and if I did at some point in time long ago, it must have started with a B,” he said airily. “B is a very colorful letter, you know. It's bright green, but sometimes purple if an R or and L are standing nearby,” he prattled, and Ryan listened though he hadn't the slightest idea what to think or say in response. “But that doesn't matter now, does it? What matters is you marching down to the castle and returning with my beloved teacups!” He smiled excitedly, and after a moment, swept his hands toward the path. “Go on, then.”

 

“Well, I hope you're prepared to wait a while. It might take me some time to convince her.”

 

“I—” The Hatter started before his expression softened. “On second thought, never mind that, Ryan,” he said, perching on the arm of a chair and holding out his arms. “I'm not the one who should be concerned about the time, as I have all the time in the world. Or lack thereof.”

 

Ryan turned his back on the clearing and marched toward the path, feeling the sharp stare of two eyes on him until he disappeared through the fog.

 

 

 

 

The path wound and sloped gently, stretching on and on ahead of Ryan. The sun had long set but the air still retained its warmth, and it felt much like a late summer or early autumn night. Light was hardly an issue, Ryan noticed quickly, for as the sun set, pale yellow wildflowers that lined the road began illuminating like lanterns. He pulled up a clump by the roots and held them in his hand. They cast a muted glow in all directions, making it easy to see nearby.

 

He couldn't, however, see far into the distance. The outline of the castle had faded into the darkness, and he was no longer sure how far away it really was, but he kept reminding himself of the Hatter's words. It was the only path to the castle. Surely, just a few more steps, and—

 

He heard a loud creak as he took another step, and, startled, dropped the glowing flowers. When he bent down to collect them before their petals blew away in the wind, he noticed he was on a drawbridge.

 

He held the flowers above him, stepping carefully across the wooden bridge, and found himself under a grand stone arch on the other side. Red banners waved silently in the breeze, and in the distance, he could see the orange glow of small windows. It was most certainly the castle, and the entrance just had to ahead.

 

He took several steps, parting his handful of flowers so that he held some in both hands and could see farther. Their glow was slowly dying, however, and he knew that he only had minutes left—maybe five, if he was lucky, before they became useless, long separated from their life source.

 

“Hello, there,” a deep voice said suddenly, and Ryan luckily dropped the flowers quickly enough to muffle his shriek.

 

“Who's there?” He muttered, his voice just this side of a whisper, and began spinning about wildly, thrashing his arms in hopes of hitting someone.

“Hey, easy there,” the same voice said, and Ryan was face to face with a guard whom he was _sure_ wasn't standing there before. He held a brightly gleaming torch, and now Ryan could see that he was standing in the very center of quite the courtyard. Topiaries and statues rose as tall as the Hatter's house all around them, the largest being a rearing horse. Its eyes were made of blood red roses. He shivered without meaning to. “What brings you here?” The guard asked.

 

“I-I'm here to see the Red Queen,” Ryan said. “I think.”

 

The guard was gone again, as well as his burning torch, and Ryan was bathed in darkness. “What business do you have with the Queen?” He asked, his voice much more forceful than before, and Ryan held up his palms in surrender.

 

“I just need to ask a favor of her, for a friend, and I assure you, it's _not_ a big one, and if she doesn't agree to it, well—no harm done, I suppose, and I'll be on my way.”

 

He stopped, the echoes of his own words and his breathing flooding his ears. “Hello?” He asked meekly.

 

“Very well,” The guard said decisively, materializing behind him, and Ryan just caught the last dreamy shimmer of his armor before he returned to normal. He felt dizzy. “The Queen is always happy to help. Follow me.”

 

 

 

 

Ryan followed the guard into a grand throne room, the ceiling so high that he couldn't clearly see where exactly it ended (if it did at all). A table ten times as long as the hatters with chairs enough for the entire kingdom stretched from the double wooden doors to the raised altar where the Queen herself sat on her throne.

 

She wore a crimson gown and a golden crown, encrusted with blood red rubies larger than Ryan had ever seen before. She examined her nails listlessly, reclined in her tall, ebony throne. Two guards stood on either side, their backs straight and the dark eye holes cut into their helmets staring forward unblinkingly. The scene before Ryan was nothing short of shuddersome, and he was walking straight into it.

 

“Your highness,” the guard that led him spoke loudly, and the queen looked up. Her face was completely blanched, contrasted by her black eyes, and her features were unreadable. “I found someone who wants to talk to you.”

 

At this she straightened her back and folded her delicate hands in her lap. Her beauty was utterly misleading, for then she leaned the slightest bit forward and said, “On with it then, before I order Walker to chop your head clean off the rest of you, right here.” She motioned to the guard on her right who nodded dutifully.

 

Ryan stammered, then cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. It was a dream; if anything happened to him, he'd surely just wake up. “Alright then,” he exhaled, mostly to himself, but the queen quirked an eyebrow. “I—”

 

“Introduce yourself,” she interjected suddenly.

 

“Ryan Ross,” he said, adding, “of London.”

 

She seemed pleased enough with his answer, smiling softly as she stood. Her red gown billowed all around her, the expensive-looking fabric catching and reflecting the light as brightly as a faceted jewel. Ryan couldn't tear his eyes away, and he didn't notice that she was holding out her hand until she cleared her throat.

 

“Victoria,” she said. “Fourth of the Asher Dynasty, first queen of the new era.” She looked serene enough, so Ryan made the mistake of taking her hand in his.

 

He immediately felt sharp pain at the base of his middle finger, and when he hurriedly pulled back his hand, the skin was red and burnt. The letters RQ were branded just on the crease, and he found it excruciatingly painful to even try and make a fist. Pain, he thought. If he was dreaming, he would have awaken. “What—” he began, but was stopped once more.

 

“That's that,” she said airily, looking over her shoulder as she returned to her throne. Ryan caught the gleam of a ring on her finger as she adjusted her gown. “Now if you try to run, it'll be criminally easy to find you.” She smiled. “What was it you needed?”

 

Ryan cleared his throat, unable to clear his mind with the throbbing so eminent in his finger. “I—The Hatter sent me. He said—”

 

“Jail him!” She shouted suddenly, standing as quickly as she sat, her hands closing into fists at her sides. Her face reddened, matching everything around her, and her chest began rising and falling rapidly. “I said _jail him!”_

 

The guards by her side rushed forward and seized Ryan, dragging him down the length of the throne hall until they reached the wooden doors. Ryan caught a glimpse of the queen as the slipped into the main corridor. She was pacing furiously, crossing back and forth in front of the throne.

 

“Sorry about that,” the guard that held his right arm said, thought continued to pull him down the hall. It was dimly lit, the stone walls lined with torches, and Ryan couldn't clearly see the end. “It's rare that people come to visit the Red Queen, so she's usually extremely wary of visitors.”

 

“Why does she hate the Hatter so much?” Ryan asked. “He seems nice enough. A little mad, maybe, but what exactly does she have against him?”

 

“He used to be court jester here,” the man named Walker answered. “But he drove her mad, and she banned him from the palace.” He laughed, voice low. “I bet the fact that he sent you as his ambassador was the last straw.” He seemed contemplative for a moment, before he asked, “He wants his tea things back, doesn't he? His cups and whatnot?”

 

Ryan nodded earnestly.

 

“Alright,” Walker sighed, “I have to put you in jail regardless, but I can get the stupid china for you. I don't think the Queen realizes that handing it over will end our problems early. Besides, she never uses it.”

 

“What good does it do me if I'm in jail?” Ryan asked, and the guard stopped, finally pulling the face of his helmet upward. He had warm brown eyes that sparkled dully, and he smiled at Ryan.

 

“If you find a way to escape and I'm not there to see it, I guess there isn't much I'll be able to do about it, now is there?” The other two guards chuckled, and Ryan exhaled, relieved.

 

 

 

 

The jail cell was warm enough, lit by a solitary torch in the corner. Mats and hay covered most of the hard stone floor, and there was a cot in the dark corner. Ryan leaned his back against the bars, staring at the pair of feet that rested on the end of the small, makeshift bed, the only part of his anonymous cell mate that was in the circle of light.

 

“Hey,” Ryan began softly, repeating himself with increasing volume until the man finally stirred.

 

“Who's there?” A groggy voice asked, rough from sleep.

 

“I am,” Ryan said, studying the man once he moved fully into the golden light. He looked tired despite the fact that he must have been sleeping for some time. His hair was black, cropped short and sticking up in all directions. He was noticeably shorter than Ryan. “I'm Ryan, and you?”

 

“Don't worry about that, kid. What're you in for?” His eyes dropped to Ryan's waistcoat and trousers. “You don't look like much of a criminal.”

 

“I'm not, that's the thing,” Ryan says, standing and brushing himself off. The man crosses his arms and cranes his neck—a defense mechanism meant to make him look stronger. All it does is make him look silly, Ryan notes, but smartly retains the smile that itches to stretch across his face. “I came here to get some china for a—a friend, and the Queen ordered that I be jailed.”

 

“Huh,” the man said, his shoulders relaxing a bit.

 

“What...” Ryan wasn't so much afraid of asking as he was of the answer. “What are _you_ in for?”

 

The man smiled wickedly. “Don't worry about that either.”

 

Ryan's eyes lingered for a moment before he lifted the torch from its stand and turned to face the gate. “Don't,” the man urged suddenly. “The guards will know what you're up to.”

 

“I have a feeling we won't have to worry about that,” Ryan said, tightening his grip on the handle of the wooden torch, snaking his arm through the bars. The hall was washed in light but he found there was little to see. There were no other people, neither guards no prisoners. There was, however, a small table just on the border of the darkness, with a silvery key glinting atop it. He grinned.

 

“There are no guards out there?” The man asked from behind Ryan. “Are you serious?”

 

Ryan nodded slowly.

 

“Well then? Come on, help me find something to pick that lock! This is our chance, we can—”

 

“I don't think that will be necessarily,” Ryan interrupted carefully. “There's a key on that table, if we can just figure out how to get it.”

 

The man stared at him blankly, his dark, empty eyes making Ryan shiver. Complete silence fell over the cell, not a breath or a footstep heard, until the man parted his lips and asked, “Really?”

 

“Really,” Ryan confirmed, lifting an eyebrow and stepping aside. The man scrambled to the gate, pressing himself against it and cinching the bars in his fists. Ryan could see a spark in his eye and the beginning of a smile all at once, and he knew that he had spotted it. “This is actually happening,” the man said gleefully, turning to Ryan who could only nod. “The key is truly there, right there.”

 

“Um...”

 

The man laughed, reaching a hand through the bars, his index finger extended, grinning madly. “It's been a while,” he explained, eyes glued to the key, “and it's a bit far, but I think...”

 

It happened in a fraction of a second: the man crooked his finger just so and the key went sailing through the air into the palm of his hand. His breaths came short and fast as he reached around to fit the key into the lock. A deep click was heard next, like the turning and setting of heavy gears, and the gate swung open.

 

“Thank you,” the man said. “I don't know how you got them to leave, how you got them to—to—forget it, thank you,” he rushed, dropping the key to the stone floor. It made a dull noise that resounded for several seconds. “Look there,” he said, and when Ryan looked up, he was pointing to a piece of paper that was on the table where the key once sat.

 

Ryan picked it up carefully, pinching it between his fingers. When he unfolded it, glowing letters appeared and disappeared just as fast as he could read them. They shimmered across the parchment, sparkling like liquid gold before they faded completely. “Meet...me...on...the...north...lawn,” he read aloud.

 

“That way,” the man pointed decisively over Ryan's shoulder. “You take the torch, I'll be fine.” He motioned with a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, and hey,” he said, just as Ryan began turning around. “I'm Pete, it was nice to meet you.”

 

Ryan shook Pete's hand dazedly, waiting until the man disappeared into the darkness to look back down at the blank paper. It turned to dust in his hands,crumbling away until Ryan's fingertips were touching each other where they once pinched the parchment. By then he was much more used to the strange way things worked in the strange land, and hardly gave the disintegrated paper a moment's thought before he grabbed the torch and ran down the corridor.

 

 

 

 

The north lawn, he found, was nothing more than a large expanse of land surrounded by a short stone wall that one could easily hurdle. It seems as if the queen claimed it because it was near her castle and she could, so she fenced it in for the sake of calling it her own. He found Walker and another guard crouched against the wall just outside the door, hunched over to shield themselves from the wind that scraped harshly against the tall back wall of the castle. They held velvet satchels, one each.

 

“Hello,” Ryan said, and their heads snapped up simultaneously. The next thing Ryan knew, the satchels were being shoved into his arms, clanking and heavy and sharp through all the soft fabric, and the guards were pushing him away from the castle.

 

“Thank you, but I really must be going; she's probably already wondering where I am. You've done the kingdom more of a service than you realize,” he said before looking both ways and vanishing behind the wooden door of the castle, leaving Ryan alone with two armfuls of china on the vast, desolate lawn with the wind brushing lonesomely over everything.

 

 

 

 

The walk back to the Hatter's house was seemingly shorter than the first time. It was afternoon, or at least Ryan assumed it was, because the air was the hottest it had been since he arrived. The heavy bags he had hoisted over his shoulders were most definitely not helping his accumulating fatigue.

 

The familiar sight of the chimney ahead made Ryan's muscles even more tired, and he began to feel the desperate burning of the last stretch, the part of the journey that feels the longest when you are, in reality, closer than ever to your destination.

 

He saw the thick fog that blocked the path ahead and, realizing it was a straight shot, let his eyes fall closed and waited for the cold shock.

 

It happened quickly, and the sweet, cool twilight air flooded him all at once. He inhaled it deeply, quickly becoming addicted to the cold sensation in his lungs as he did so, until he could feel two strong hand steadying him. He reopened his eyes to find the Hatter staring back at him, eyes darker than ever.

 

“I believe I almost lost you there,” the Hatter said, quickly following it up with, “My, you did it, didn't you?” Ryan's sore arms were freed of the bags and he fell backwards, luckily into a chair. He managed a weak smile. “Here it is!” He exclaimed, pulling it quickly from the backs, the saucers and cups and the teapot, all perfectly intact. They were larger than the other teacups and saucers and more sturdy; Ryan could tell just by looking at them as they were set gingerly onto the table. “I can hardly believe they're here! I was sure you'd never be able to get them, oh, my poor teacups! Not that I had a lack of confidence in you. Well, I suppose that was exactly the case, but you're here now, and so is my china, both in one piece, and—”

 

He stopped abruptly, his eyes falling to Ryan's hand and his smile drooping to a frown. “What is that?” He asked, reaching out for Ryan's hand before he could pull It away.

 

The Hatter's touch was cool on the burn as he smoothed a fingertip over the raised skin. Ryan shivered from the relief. “It's alright,” Ryan said, the unspoken _now_ hanging in the air above them.

 

“She branded you,” the Hatter said. “The Red Queen branded you! Oh my, this is all my fault! I am most happy now that my china is back, so don't think for a second that I'm ungrateful, but dear, it must have hurt you so badly! She's positively evil, that woman. I don't care if any of you can hear me,” he shouted, eyes searching the clearing, and Ryan wondered uselessly who he was talking to. “Are you alright? Wait, don't answer that. Of course you're not.” The Hatter sighed, dropping Ryan's hand. “I'm not completely sure how I can help you, but I'm fairly sure I know something that always helps, which is tea, and luckily for you, Ryan, it just so happens to be tea time.”

 

He quickly emptied to contents of the old, broken teacups into the new ones. Ryan watched in wonder, noticing the tea was still somehow steaming, and said, “You remembered my name.”

 

“Well, yes,” he Hatter chuckled, his long eyelashes casting tiny shadows on his cheekbones. He kept his eyes fixed on the teacups below him. “I suppose I _do_ have the intelligence to remember certain things, though however rare, and I'm certain there must be a tiny man in there who decides what is worth remembering and what isn't.” His eyes finally met Ryan's, whose breath caught in his chest at the force of the Hatter's gaze. “He must like you.”

 

Ryan chuckled nervously, accepting the full cup that was handed to him. “Two sugar cubes, exactly as you like it,” the Hatter said proudly, sitting back in his own chair and taking a sip from his cup.

 

“How did you know that?” Ryan asked.

 

The Hatter looked puzzled for a moment before he shrugged. “It seems I know a lot more than I thought I did. By the way, I think I've forgotten to properly thank you—”

 

“No,” Ryan said. “You've thanked me enough. It's not—”

 

“—so, thank you,” the Hatter said, tipping his head the slightest bit off his head. “I assure you that I'll never forget this. As they may have told you, I've made many attempts at getting It back myself, but they aren't very fond of me there, though I can't imagine why,” he said. “I don't think of myself as a criminal or a—a murderer, for goodness' sake, all I wanted was my china and I could never manage to get it back. But you did, somehow, I guess I'll never know precisely how, and you're fine, mostly. You must be special.”

 

Ryan took another sip of his tea, moistened his lips, and said, “I'm sure my parents must be extremely worried about me, so if you please, the potion?”

 

The Hatter dropped his cup of tea onto the grass, and Ryan watched helplessly as its contents soaked into the earth. “Right, yes, the potion, but Ryan,” he said, standing, and Ryan did the same. “Believe me when I say that many people have passed through here.” He scratched he back of his neck. “But most of them are scared away almost immediately. Actually, you're the first person in as long as I can remember that actually stopped and—and, well, _spoke_ to me.”

 

The fists Ryan didn't know he had made relaxed slowly.

 

“Not only did you do that but you also got my china back, and, well, maybe it was partially because you wanted the potion that will get you home, but you seem smart and I have no doubt that you would have eventually found it yourself. I wouldn't have stopped you, you know. And now I have this terribly selfish feeling that is giving me quite the headache, and I'm hesitating to give you the potion because I don't want you to leave.”

 

Ryan stared, wide-eyed and breathless. The Hatter looked afraid, his features shadowy as he struggled to catch his breath. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” He asked, lips barely moving.

 

“I have absolutely no clue,” the Hatter admitted. “But I'm sure of one thing, which would be the sorry fact that I'm horribly lonely.”

 

Ryan struggled to find a valid argument, for the longer he stared into the Hatter's enchanting eyes, the less he wanted to leave at all. He swallowed. “Won't the Queen be after me?” he asked, holding up his branded hand.

 

“No,” the Hatter said, shaking his head and pushing Ryan's hand down with his own. “Nothing can touch you here, not the Red Queen, not Time, not anything, forever.”

 

“Doesn't it get terribly boring?” Ryan asked.

 

“So now you can imagine exactly how I feel, but I'm sure that if you can steal china from the Red Queen, you'll be able to fix me, or at least help me. I feel like I've known you forever yet hardly know anything about you, which is a very curious thing, isn't it?”

 

Ryan parted his lips to speak, but was predictably stopped.

 

“It is. I've just been struck with a positively mad idea,” he continued, eyes full of wonder more raw than any he had ever seen.

 

“Another?” Ryan just barely managed to ask before the Hatter leaned in and brushed his lips against Ryan, the softest whisper of a kiss with just enough pressure behind it to remind Ryan that this was real, more real, perhaps, than anything else.

 

“Please stay,” the Hatter exhaled against Ryan's lips, his breath cool and wintry despite the summer air, but Ryan shook his head. It hurt him to do so, to see the sad, lost look on the Hatter's face.

 

“I miss—I miss the stars,” Ryan said. “I suppose there are none here, because, well, we're underground.”

 

“Under where?” The Hatter asked, tilting his head. “Well,I'm sure the ground must be a place, am I correct? You can't really be under a thing, can you? If we are under a _thing_ , it must be extremely large, overwhelmingly so—either that, or we are quite small.”

 

Ryan chuckled, reaching up to adjust the hat that sat crookedly on the Hatter's head. “Maybe, but you have a big heart.”

 

The Hatter didn't crack a smile, just sighed and turned toward the table to grab a small red bottle tightly sealed shut by a cork. He held it out to Ryan, saying, “It's foolproof, believe me. It looks deep into you and knows exactly where you want to be, and that is exactly where you'll wake up.”

 

Ryan took the bottle but hesitated, and said, “I...I can come back whenever I want, right? So I'll see you again someday.”

 

The Hatter smiled wistfully and said, “My, Ryan, you may just have a worse memory than I do. But never mind that, drink up, go on.”

 

Ryan popped the cork and drank the sweet, syrupy liquid. It was almost too sweet for him to tolerate, but the taste was soon replaced by a numb, tingly feeling all over his body. His fingertips began stinging with pins and needles, and the Hatter faded in and out of focus as his vision began softening around the edges and warmth overtook him. It wasn't the hot summer day sort of heat, but a pleasant slow-spreading kind, like fire in a hearth when the rest of the world is cold and sleeping.

 

Ryan surrendered, allowing his eyes to fall shut, and just like that all senses were lost.

 

He had a boat to board.

 

 


End file.
